


The Trials of Domesticity

by DarkObsessions



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman: The Animated Series
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Dom/sub, F/M, Introspection, Love/Hate, Power Dynamics, joker pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 20:14:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10951908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkObsessions/pseuds/DarkObsessions
Summary: Harley was having nightmares. One minute he'd be sleeping peacefully, having finally caught up with that elusive little bastard known as sleep. Then, all of a sudden, she'd be thrashing about their bed like some kind of angry little trout out of water. She'd kick, scream, curse – the whole nine yards. Frankly, it was infuriating. Something needed to be done. Quickly.





	The Trials of Domesticity

****DISCLAIMER**** : I don't own Batman or any of its characters. It is not my intellectual property. There is no financial gain made from this nor will any be sought. This is for entertainment purposes only.

 

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Harley Quinn had nightmares. Bad ones. They didn't happen too often, though frequently enough to sufficiently inconvenience and irritate her bed partner. Which, admittedly, didn't usually take much. After all, it wasn't as if the Joker was particularly well known for his patience and understanding.

 

One minute he'd be sleeping peacefully, having finally caught up with that elusive little bastard known as sleep. Then, all of a sudden, she'd be thrashing about their bed like some kind of angry little trout out of water. She'd kick, scream, curse – the whole nine yards.

 

Frankly, it was infuriating. What did a man need to do to get a decent night's sleep around here? Was it too much to ask for a few hours of shut eye without some daffy doll kicking him in the shins and screeching in his ear?

 

Each time it happened he'd consider booting her out, banishing her from their bed to have those vexatious night terrors somewhere else. Preferably somewhere far enough away that he wouldn't hear her yowling.

 

On occasion, he'd even done it. Off and on throughout the years, he'd exiled her to find sleep on the opposite end of whichever hideout they were currently holed up in. She didn't like it, her protestive caterwauling made as much clear. But one way or another, he'd usually managed to convince her to accept the punishment. Albeit not always with grace or dignity, but that was of no real concern. He'd always quite enjoyed her easy excitability, anyhow.

 

However, much to his dismay, he'd eventually come to notice a distinct sense of discomfort in the nights of her absence. It wasn't something easily described or pinpointed, it was just... there. Like a troublesome little tickle that just wouldn't go away. A constant chafing. Or cancer... Yeah, that was more accurate. Some horrible flesh eating disease that left your skin crawling and your brain itching. Crawling skin and itching brains were hardly conducive to sleep.

 

And so, after a few exasperating days of even less sleep that usual, he'd eventually call her back to their bed; usually without an apology or the bother of disclosing a reason for her re-admittance. He certainly couldn't tell her it was because he slept better with her there, even with all the sleep-punching. He didn't want her getting any funny ideas. No good would come of instilling any notions of indispensability. Nope, no good at all.

 

To any normal person, the discomfort that accompanied her absence might have been indicative of some level of attachment or dependency. The Joker, however, hardly considered himsef normal. To him, this unpleasant sensation was simply an unfortunate side effect of being subjected to her constant presence. Clearly, he'd just gotten accustomed to her proximity. She was always right _there_ , shoving her way into his personal space and burrowing in like some kind of parasite... A desperately needy little parasite with an overactive libido.

 

It was only natural that he'd adapted. With that woman's incessant pestering, he'd had to! It was the only way to stay sane! Insane? Whatever, it hardly mattered.

 

The Joker didn't _care_ about anything. He didn't _need_ anyone. It was his whole schitck, for Christ sakes. He didn't get _attached_. He didn't _feel_ things. Chaos was his one true love. One barmy little blonde was hardly going to change that.

 

He could easily overcome this inconvenient development by distancing himself from her. Enough time away from her, and he'd pop right back into his old, blissfully unencumbered self. He knew he would.

 

Or he could just kill her, that could work too.

 

But both those options did seem unnecessarily tedious, bothersome even. She wasn't likely to embrace either one of those plans. She'd inevitably kick up a huge fuss, start rambling on about their _special_ connection and wailing about her _eternal_ devotion and their _undying_ love. She'd never taken too well to being told no. In fact, he was quite certain she often pissed him off on purpose! She liked riling him up, liked the physicality that often came with such interactions. She'd provoke him to violence and then ride it out with a gusto, playing to his hubris like a pro. She knew exactly how to get his blood boiling, whether it be through his temper or otherwise. He figured she didn't think he'd noticed, but he had.

 

The nutty little broad always had enjoyed playing with fire. He knew she got off on the danger and unpredictability that went hand in hand with being his. Because she was his, that much was irrefutable. She was the pretty little masochist to his big bad sadist. In that respect, she was perfect.

 

Besides, he'd spent an awful lot of time molding and shaping her. It would be a shame to muck it up now and have all that time and effort be for naught.

 

So, wasn't it just more convenient to keep her around? True, having someone as hopelessly devoted and obsessed as she was had it downfalls. But she was a rather pleasant ego boost, a constant source of food for his boundless narcissism. She loved listening to him talk almost as much as he loved listening to himself. And that, in and of itself, was a herculean feat. Because boy oh boy, he sure loved listening to himself. One would think, given his genius, that anyone graced with his vocalized thoughts and opinions would be infused with a glorious sense of privilege and awe.

 

Alas, this was not the case. Most people were humorless cretins, hapless apes blindly bumbling through their lives without a clue. Harley on the other hand, was a rare and extraordinary specimen. She was capable of acknowledging his genius and embracing it, providing him with the high regard and praise that all his efforts deserved. Even if she didn't always have the capacity to understand him, she tried. And that was more than he could say of most.

 

She wasn't hard on the eyes, either. And having someone around to warm his bed, cook his meals and do his laundry, feed the hyenas and find his socks... well, that was no real hardship. Though admittedly, he rarely noticed those things were being done at all until she threw one of her tantrums and disappeared for long enough that the mess started piling up around his ears.

 

Who had done all those things for him before her, anyway? He couldn't even remember now. Surely, he hadn't done them himself. A henchman, maybe? Multiple henchmen? Who could keep track? Life before her was a blur. Hell, even some of the parts after her were a blur. So why complicate things further by having to find someone else to do her job? He doubted any of the henches would be up to the task, anyhow. With those idiots, he'd probably end up eating out of cans wearing mismatched socks and dyed laundry while the hyenas starved to death.

 

It was hardly reasonable. No, not reasonable at all. Totally unacceptable. Better to keep her around. Better to endure her presence and trudge ever onward.

 

If that meant her toasty little form would continue to warm that space in the crook of his arm and along his side at night, so be it. They didn't have a space heater in here anyways.

 

If it meant he'd have to withstand the occasional elbow to the gut or a kick to the shin before getting a decent night's rest, so be it. It was better than putting up with the crawly skin, itchy brain and sleepless nights. Usually.

 

If it meant tolerating her smothering affection and nymphomania, so be it. He could always incorporate a little blood and pain into the game to keep things interesting. It wasn't as if she wasn't fun to play with when the mood struck. With the right motivation, that girl could put on a real show. Tough as nails, that one.

 

If it meant he'd forever be oblivious to the location of any of his things, so be it. He could always just order Harley to find them. She always knew where they were, anyway. The dizzy dame was like a damned homing beacon for lost socks, misplaced grenades and forgotten blueprints. Sometimes he thought she hid things from him on purpose, just so that he'd be forced highlight her usefulness by demanding she find them.

 

But it was fine, whatever. He could stomach all of it just so long as she didn't get too cocky.

 

These were the thoughts running through the Joker's semi-conscious mind as he began to dose against his harlequin-shaped space heater. He had just finished salvaging his self-image of impervious indifference by talking himself into reaffirming the impossibility of any real notion of genuine affection on his part. He'd come up with enough excuses to justify keeping the moll around and convinced himself that despite her vast and numerous accumulation of flaws, her presence held slightly fewer cons than it did pros. In conclusion, her continued existence was necessary. Despite the frustration she regularly caused him, her removal would be more headache than it was worth.

 

Besides, it wasn't like he was committed to the idea. If she really got under his skin, he could always change his mind and just ring her skinny neck. No skin off his hide.

 

With these pleasant thoughts, he was just drifting off into a semblance of something resembling actual sleep. That is, until his space heater delivered a savage battle cry and a vicious knee to his kidney. After which, he promptly planted a foot on her lower back and shoved her clean off the bed and onto the floor.

 

She landed with a startled 'oomph', followed by some barely audible movement. A moment later he was met with a quiet and mildly confused sounding “Puddin'?”

 

He rolled his eyes. With a hand on his battered kidney and his eyes narrowed in a combination of irritation and sleep deprivation, he leaned over the edge of the bed to bear witness to the crumpled heap of disheveled woman sitting on the floor.

 

She was quite the sight; her silk nighty all wrinkled and bunched around her thighs, her hair a right mess and her eyes bleary with the confusion of sleep. He might have laughed at the look of her, had he not been so vexed and exhausted. Not to mention sore. In the correct context, pain could be bliss. But this, unfortunately, had not been such a context. This was just irritating.

 

When she continued to look up at him with doe eyes and a silent question, he gave an irritated huff.

 

“Are you finished?” He asked haughtily with a speculative arch of brow, obviously referring to her sleep-karate.

 

With her bottom lip caught between her teeth, she was all too eager to nod. He knew she was waiting to see whether he intended to toss her out, or let her climb back into bed. He told himself that if it was the former, it was more than likely he'd have to deal with an awful lot of whining, pleading and empty promises. And then, when she'd finally slunk off to accept her fate, he'd be left with some more of that accursed itchy brain syndrome and a hefty helping of skin crawlage.

 

So, with an overly dramatic eye roll and a theatrical sigh, he lifted the covers on her side of the bed in way of a beckoning. “Good. Get back into bed.” He growled.

 

He tried to ignore the elated squee she loosed as she clamored back up into the bed next to him. He pretended not to notice the way she didn't wait for permission before sliding over to his side of the bed and plastering herself against him.

 

“What were you dreaming about, anyways?” He grumbled bitterly as he adjusted himself against her.

 

He felt her shrug and snuggle closer. “Don't remember.” She answered airily, drowsiness already riding her tone.

 

His eyes rolled up toward the ceiling for what felt like the umpteenth time tonight. His arm settled habitually over her torso so that his hand could rest idly upon her hip, and he shook his head as he finally closed his eyes.

 

“No, of course you don't.” He scoffed condescendingly, his thumb tracing absent circles against the exposed skin below the bunched hem of her nighty. “Why bother offering an explanation as to why I now suffer a bruised kidney?” He muttered sarcastically, but without half the usual bluster.

 

When his question was met with total silence aside from the steady sound of her breathing, he glanced down. He found her snugly tucked against his side and already fast asleep. Settling back against the pillows, he huffed out a defeated sigh and murmured “Figures...”

 

 


End file.
